


transistor

by penrosequartz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Guns, Implied Character Death, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Oneshot, Weapons, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 09:41:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14668398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penrosequartz/pseuds/penrosequartz
Summary: He's going to die, but that's okay. He's a doctor.





	transistor

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't thought about sherlock in a really long time but this came to me late at night and i'm still crying. i hate this. i hate myself

“It's not worth it,” Sherlock’s voice came from behind John.  
His hands curled into fists. There wasn't any other way to do this. It wasn't an  _impossible_ situation - there was a solution. It's just that... it was a hard choice to make.  
“People will die,” John swallowed thickly, a metallic taste filling his mouth, his body buzzing with anxiety.  
“I don't care about people,” Sherlock stated, and John huffed a dry laugh.  
“No,” he cracked a small smile, turning, “You don't, do you?”  
John abruptly realised that he was finding solace in Sherlock’s pale, worried face. That was nice - somebody didn't want him to die. It was almost comforting.  
“Then-” Sherlock’s voice shook slightly, and John thought maybe that was the most surprising thing of all.  
“Then you have to take this,” Sherlock finished. John kept memorising his eyes, paying no mind to Sherlock’s outstretched arm. Sherlock, sighing almost exasperatedly, grabbed John’s right hand and pressed an object into it, cold, hard-  
John glanced down. A black handgun rested on his palms, skin weathered by war, work, age. He shook his head slightly.  
“N-no-” he began, and before the other man could cut him off, he continued, “I’m a doctor.”  
“You’re a soldier,” Sherlock insisted, pleading, an edge of desperation in his voice.  
“No,” John shook his head again, more firmly now. His arms dropped limply to his sides, barely gripping the weapon, until he tightened his hold and stepped forward. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s frame tightly, threading underneath the man’s open, dark, totally over-the-top coat. A lump was forming in his throat, and tears were pricking the corners of his eyes, just like something was pricking at his thumbs. The other man’s arms hesitantly wrapped around him as John buried his head in Sherlock’s chest. The gun, warm under the black wool, John tucked into the back waistband of Sherlock’s pants. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach.  
“I’m a doctor,” he affirmed, mostly to himself, and withdrew. John turned away, and without looking back, walked into the seemingly abandoned building.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed that fucj


End file.
